


Halfway

by salamanderinspace



Category: Original Work
Genre: A Boring Old Person Story, Chronic Illness, Fear, Memoirs, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 19:59:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11996913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderinspace/pseuds/salamanderinspace
Summary: I find myself asking, over and over: is it a physical limitation?  Or is it just fear?  Is there a difference?





	Halfway

We arrived at the church at quarter to four. The line hummed with the quiet conversations of a crowd anticipating spectacle. A flyer on the door promised this was the last tour of the season.

We'd come for a chance to climb the stairways of the historic church in the city square. The real draw was not the promise of seeing the inside of the clock tower, but of looking out from within. There were about twelve of us. When the doors opened, we filtered in and trickled up and down the aisles. Some approached the altar or admired the stained glass. "We can go up to the steeple?" I confirmed. "As soon as the tour guide gets here," they told me.

"They" were some sort of volunteers in pastel blue shirts. They passed out a rather alarming liability release form. I texted my husband. "They want me to verify I'm in perfect health and that they aren't responsible for any death or dismemberment that may occur," I typed. "Sounds like they don't trust their God very much!" he answered.

The steeple soared, the tallest structure in the town. The first flight of stairs wasn't a challenge. They were like wooden stairs in an old house. There was a beautiful latticed window with yellow sunlight pouring in. We arrived at a small attic where some of the actual clock-work mechanics seemed to be located. I couldn't hear the guide; he said something about how they had to wind up the chandeliers to clean them. I waited until the group exited up the ladder, then I took some pictures.

The ladder was a bit tougher. He'd said there were three ladders in total, and I didn't think it'd be hard getting UP--but I wondered how we'd get DOWN. The ladder went to a little ledge where there was another window. This one looked out over the town, probably through the steeple. I saw over the top of the Hilton. I just couldn't figure out how, once I got up onto the ledge, I'd get my body back onto the ladder again. There was nothing to hold onto.

So this is when I chickened out. To be more specific, I did a risk evaluation. I remembered a time when I went swimming in the pool at my university. I wasn't strong enough to use the ladder to pull myself out. Creeping around the edge of the Olympic-sized pool--while my friends and the life-guards shouted encouragement-- had been humiliating. Though the humiliation was minor compared to the awareness of potential danger. I hadn't been careful. I hadn't known if I could get out of the pool when I got in.

I have an awkward body type and an awkward body. I don't balance very well. My joints are extremely hypermobile. I get sprains, sublixations, and dislocations frequently. Things are dangerous for me that aren't dangerous for others. So, standing at the top of the steeple-ladder, gripping raw wood tight enough to get splinters, I evaluated the dangers.

I decided not to risk the ascent. Alone, I returned to the bottom of the stairs. "Did you go up?" the volunteer asked. "No, I made it to the top of the first ladder," I told her. "Well, that's halfway," she assured me, kindly.

I felt like I'd missed out on something. Like I'd been cheated. I had this familiar feeling, something I walk around with often--the "halfway to the top, and then no further" feeling. It's metaphorically relevant to much of my life. There is only so far I can go before I hit my physical limitations. Yet I find myself asking, over and over: is it a physical limitation? Or is it just fear? Is there a difference?

I don't know myself as well as I'd like. I feel untested. When I am tested, I pull back before I can fail. Failure, in the case of the church steeple, might have been catastrophic. But I imagine success would have been really wonderful.

The peculiar poetry of this situation is that, as I was standing at the top of that ladder, weighing my decision to go down, I couldn't help but ask myself, "is this because I don't believe in God?" Or to translate secularly - "is this because I don't believe in the good in people, and in myself?" These days I rarely get high enough to SEE the good in people, or in myself. I don't ever get to the vantage point.

I can't really know for sure why I don't get there. I can only watch what I do. What I do is: take time on a Saturday to tour historical churches. Climb higher than some people. Climb less high than other people. When I try my hardest, I am mediocre. Most people are.


End file.
